Trees (1913)
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree;
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree who looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree who may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
---Joyce Kilmer (1886 – 1918)
Killed on 30 July 1918
The Second Battle of the Marne
World War I
A Poet of My Heart
I thought of you today Joyce Kilmer,
The long dead poet of New Jersey,
The poet of Trees, the marker
Of nature’s grand design
In rhymes as simple as the sniper’s bullet
That felled you in the mud of war
And left you bleeding
Lying still in death, embraced
By mother earth’s sweet bosom,
At the crest of a small hill in France.
I saw a tree today, as dead as you,
It’s arms stretched heavenly,
As if to reach your lifeless, muddy
Fingers in a pleading moment
Of fearful supplication,
It’s gray and brittle limbs
Tortured by time and
Free at last to die
Among the rising life of
Opulent greenery, the
Carefree joy of sunshine,
The blissful cooling rain.
The lonely arms outstretched
Caught my eye and trapped
My attention. It was then,
I thought of you.
--- William Stroud
Later, I shall write about World War I and the Second Battle of the Marne.
Should you wish to know more about Joyce Kilmer, this is a good place to start:
